


with naught but a look

by transmothman



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Manhandling, Massage, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Behavior, Premature Ejaculation, Rough Kissing, Scent Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, bards have super fast recovery times, canon atypical beverages, everyone is bi, feelings but they're both mad about it, jaskier is super horny, pillow princess jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22922731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmothman/pseuds/transmothman
Summary: jaskier has three things: an unstoppable libido, a limitless imagination, and the continent's sexiest traveling companion. sometimes, this leads to certain accidents. they become a little less accidental over time.or: five times jaskier accidentally orgasms because of geralt, and one time he comes very much on purpose.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 1723
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	with naught but a look

**Author's Note:**

> this got a little out of hand. it was supposed to be a lot of quick and dirty jaskier orgasms but they both had to go and “catch feelings”. it’s still dirty but now there’s emotions
> 
> i know this isn't how biology works and i don't know SHIT about witcher lore. i just think this would be hot. no angst no decades apart they just start traveling together and don't really ever stop

Jaskier is famed for many things, both in and out of the bedroom. His stamina has never been one of them. 

Fortunately, his recovery time is _unparalleled_ , so he mostly gives his partners a heads up that he may well come two or three times during the night - which avoids any kind of disappointment if he does lose control too easily. Doesn’t always save him from embarrassment, but on balance, the night is generally worth it. After all, he’s the one who decides what to include in the songs.

It almost becomes a blessing for a little while - the first few months he’s traveling with Geralt, there are stretches of time where they won’t pass a town or village for days or weeks. Jaskier’s cock is not used to such a meager diet, but it takes all of two minutes to get himself off, so it’s easy to find the time when he’s supposedly setting up their camp each evening. He can be completely composed, his breathing back to normal and the flush gone from his cheeks, by the time Geralt finishes tending to Roach.

It’s a surprisingly practical arrangement; one that doesn’t have to lead to awkward conversations, whether or not Geralt suspects. And, fool that he is, Jaskier thinks it will be sustainable.

Until it’s not.

  
  


1

The first time, it’s during a storm. Rain starts to fall in the mid afternoon and becomes a downpour by dusk. The two of them travel until later than usual, pressing on, searching for some sort of cover. They find trees, but with how they’re being battered about by the wind, there’s a not insignificant chance that one of them could be uprooted during the night and collapse on the stupid travelers sleeping beneath. 

Eventually, as darkness fully draws in such that Jaskier can only see Geralt’s vague silhouette in the starlight, they find a small, rocky cave.

It’s barely big enough for a single bedroll, let alone two, but it’s all they have. Jaskier pouts when he sees Geralt climb inside, and gives him his most wounded look.

“What?”

“A whole day on a horse, resting your bottom, a body with the ability to withstand extreme conditions both natural and supernatural, and you choose to leave a fragile human outside?”

Geralt scoffs – no appreciation for Jaskier’s theatrics, as usual. “There’s room for you. It’s cramped, but it’s only a night.”

Jaskier hesitates for a moment before squeezing into the cave beside Geralt. It’s clearly the better option, when compared to catching a deadly disease from a night under the freezing rain. In fact, it’s a better option than many, many things his expansive imagination could compare it to. Geralt’s burning warmth, the hard planes of his muscles, and the scratch of his low voice speaking right into Jaskier’s ear are all things that have been on his mind more and more – especially when he has his cock in his hand.

He is very careful to face away from Geralt as the two of them try to find a comfortable sleeping position. Jaskier’s dick is as hard as it always is when climbing into bed with an attractive man, refusing to get the message that the reason is different this time. 

In this tiny space with their packs and the spare bedroll barely covering the opening, Jaskier is surrounded by the smell of Geralt, and starts to pick out the specifics for the first time. He smells like the smoke that rises from the final embers of a campfire, like the rich leather of a freshly made pair of boots, like the biting tang of adrenaline after facing off with a monster. Geralt’s breath evens out, his head falling to the side as sleep takes him. Jaskier can feel it on the back of his neck, and he is _aching_ , sure that sleep will be impossible in this tortured state where all of his senses are filled with Geralt.

He’s so strung up he knows that it’d take even less time than usual to bring himself off. If he could extract himself from the cave without waking Geralt, he’d brave the rain to do it, but Geralt is a far lighter sleeper than he appears. Even if Jaskier had an excuse for going outside, it would be selfish to wake him for something so trivial.

Not that it _feels_ trivial to have his cock pulse in his smallclothes each time he feels Geralt’s chest rise and fall, each inbreath pressing his muscles against Jaskier’s back.

He does his absolute best to calm himself down enough to sleep, focusing on his own breathing, composing a lullaby of sorts in his head about the wide variety of other surprising places he’s slept. Eventually, it works, and he drifts off with his still hard cock gone from his thoughts.

It can’t be more than an hour later that he wakes, his mind hazy, clouded with lust and warmth. He’s rolled onto his stomach as he’s slept, and he vaguely knows that somebody is there next to him as he sleepily, urgently rolls his hips downwards, pressing his desperate cock into the edge of the bedroll, but he doesn’t register who it is or where exactly they are. He barely registers that he’s awake. His body’s needs have taken over while his mind was fogged with sleep, and now Jaskier lets out a series of small, high pitched gasps as he jerks his hips once, then twice more, before filling his smallclothes with release as pleasure fires through his body. 

All tension gone from him, Jaskier could easily fall back into his rest, not even remembering being awake for this when he wakes up next morning to find sticky smallclothes - if it hadn’t been for the person next to him shifting slightly, giving Jaskier the horrifying reminder of exactly where he is. It’s more effective than a slap to the face at waking him up, and he freezes in place, eyes wide, staring at the stone wall as he tries to determine whether or not Geralt is awake.

The answer, unsurprisingly, is yes.

Jaskier doesn’t move, despite the uncomfortable sensation of lying in a pool of his own spend. 

Geralt doesn’t speak. Nor does he attempt to move away. Jaskier holds out a desperate hope that it just seemed like he was having some kind of nightmare, had been shaking with fear rather than rutting against the ground.

The storm has cleared by the time they wake up, and has left enough pools of water that Jaskier is able to quickly wash his smallclothes out of Geralt’s sight. During the next few days of travel, Geralt is silent while Jaskier chatters and sings a mile a minute - exactly the same as usual. Neither of them mention the night they spent in the cave, and they’re graced with far better weather until they reach the next town, sleeping far enough apart that Jaskier can just about trust his dick to behave.

2

The second time, it’s after a fight. Since the night of the storm, Jaskier has become a lot more… _responsive_ to Geralt’s smell, like his cock has been conditioned to pick up on it. Each time Geralt stomps into a tavern and sits down next to him, or exerts himself enough to build up a sweat, Jaskier feels himself getting dizzy from a single whiff, blood rushing south to fill out his trousers. 

The bulge isn’t too obvious, his clothes as tight and brightly patterned as they are, but it certainly makes walking uncomfortable. To avoid it, Jaskier tries to always keep a few feet between himself and Geralt, who for his part doesn’t complain about this newly increased personal space. Jaskier might be jerking off a little more too, but it’s not like he keeps count, so it’s easy to pretend that it’s not happening.

And then they’re sent after a monster. A new kind, a grotesque bearlike creature maybe four times Geralt’s size, and Jaskier watches from the relative safety of a hilltop as the two of them quite literally _wrestle_. They seem evenly matched; taking turns to pin the other beneath them, neither able to maintain the hold for long. When they strike each other, the monster’s claw is comparable in size to Geralt’s sword, and Jaskier is already writing lyrics that exaggerate the claw even further.

It’s one of the most intense fights Jaskier has witnessed, and also one of the most physical. The two combatants never manage to leave each other’s reach, both locked together for many long minutes until Geralt finally wrestles the beast’s claw into its own heart.

Geralt stays astride the beast for a moment longer, and even at this distance, Jaskier can see him visibly panting. He’s a witcher, but it still takes him _effort_ to drag his own exhausted body up the hill and collapse in front of Jaskier and - _oh_. 

Geralt is _right_ in front of Jaskier, probably closer than he’d intended, and he’s all blood and sweat and unwashed clothes and hot earth, his smell stronger than Jaskier has ever known it, and even though he’s in a crumpled heap, he looks so thrillingly alive. Jaskier gets hard painfully quickly, feeling his cock lengthen and press against his pants.

“Geralt! Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he manages to gasp breathlessly, able to at least partly focus on what’s important.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, giving his head a small shake. “Just need a minute.”

He looks far more tired than hurt - crushed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing that needs tending to, certainly nothing life threatening. Still, Jaskier has never seen him affected by a fight this way.

He fists his hands in the grass so that he’s not tempted to grab himself, but he doesn’t move away. Maybe he forgets that’s even possible, their proximity plunging him right back into this headspace where no rational thought exists, no thought of any kind except the witcher beside him. Jaskier knows Geralt occasionally finds company at a whorehouse when coin allows, but he’s never seen him right after the experience. He wonders if this is how Geralt looks, smells, sounds right after he’s fucked someone into the mattress, unrestrained, putting the same unwavering focus and physical power behind it that he did the fight. 

Jaskier’s thoughts race out of his reach, and he imagines being the one who made Geralt feel this way. He imagines how completely fucked out he would be, how utterly _wrecked_ by Geralt’s probably giant dick, to cause a reaction like this. His heartbeat races, he can feel it all through his body, especially in his cock, which is so impossibly hard that it feels like it could rip through a pair of less well-made trousers. It’s been far too long since he had a partner with the strength, much less the willingness, to take him apart so completely, and just the thought of it right now has him dangerously close to the edge.

He knows he’s being uncharacteristically quiet, so he speaks, fighting to keep his words steady. 

“A bath, I decree, will cure you completely. You’ll hurt less tomorrow if you can soak in hot water for your usual interminable stretch, and we could probably make it back to the village by nightfall if your battle worn legs can manage the ride.”

His words come out faster than usual, no forethought behind them, but now all he can think about is Geralt in the bath, naked, glistening, steam rising around him and carrying away the lingering scent of exertion. How Geralt would close his eyes in bliss as he sank into the water, perhaps letting out a low groan, completely relaxed.

“My legs have been through worse.”

Jaskier’s dick is leaking enough now that he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a visible wet spot. He’s fucking close and he knows it, knows it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made himself orgasm through thoughts alone. He digs his nails into his palms, concentrates on steering the conversation into less dangerous territory, makes his best effort to calm down.

“I don’t doubt that, but I still fully intend to distract you from your pain on the journey. I have several possible wordings for the third line in the song that will tell this tale, and since it is your reputation on the line, it is your wish that I must follow.” 

His voice is higher than it should be, and Geralt still hasn’t moved from where he lies close enough that Jaskier could reach out and wipe off the sweat still glowing on his face. Jaskier almost whines, his balls tightening, please, no, he has more self control than this-

“If my wishes meant anything you’d put that fucking lute away.”

And it’s not fair, because the words themselves are insulting, but there’s a growl to Geralt’s voice, perhaps the barest hint of a threat as he fixes Jaskier with a look that _dares_ him to argue back, and Jaskier holds perfectly still as he’s flung over the edge. His head spirals with want and his cock spills, flooding his trousers and probably ruining them for good.

A flicker of a frown crosses Geralt’s face. He rights it just as quickly.

“I greatly respect your opinion, but there is not a single creature, living or dead, in or out of existence, that could quiet the song in my heart.” Jaskier tries to calm his panting as he speaks.

Geralt heaves himself to his feet, only grunting in response. His first two steps are unsteady, but then he rights himself, heading towards Roach. Jaskier isn’t sure he’ll wait for him, so he scrambles up too. His cock has softened, but his loss of control has left a very obvious stain behind that he can’t do anything about. He’ll be a laughing stock if he can’t change before they get to town.

He’s too scared to acknowledge what just happened, so he doesn’t ask to take a moment now. He does notice that Geralt turns back once he’s mounted, making sure Jaskier is with him before he rides on.

  
  


3

The third time, it’s during a bath. Not that same night - he makes excuses not to accompany Geralt that time, claiming to have run into a friend from his youth in town. But Geralt bathes often, and Jaskier is neither clever enough to keep finding excuses nor strong-willed enough to try. 

Besides, he has to desensitize himself somehow. As the saying goes - one accidental orgasm is chance, two is coincidence, and three makes it entirely inappropriate to stay so close to the traveling companion who keeps causing them. If he wants this strange partnership to continue, which he very much does, both he and his cock need to get over this ridiculous crush. 

Jaskier has started gravitating towards partners who remind him of Geralt, in the most surface of ways. There’s the woman with lemon bleached hair working at the market who flat out refuses to let him play a song and take a couple coins off the price of herbs. There’s the man whose low, hoarse voice makes him sound like he’s just had a cock down his throat, even more so than Geralt. There’s the knight with broad shoulders and black leather who corrects him on his technique while he’s regaling them with stories of sword fights he’s seen, acting out the more dramatic moments.

Jaskier takes all three of them to bed, as well as others who don’t stick in his mind so well, and he always has a good time (at least once, usually more). But the more any of his partners remind him of Geralt, the more aware he always is that they’re _not_.

He supposes that’s why he accompanies Geralt to take a bath this night in particular, ignoring the only person sitting alone at the bar - a young woman with hazel eyes who’d been staring into a mug for a while before she’d made eye contact with Jaskier, never once smiling but _definitely_ challenging him to approach. 

“Not your type?” Geralt asks as they leave the tavern and head towards the bathhouse, nodding towards the woman.

“Geralt, I am both older and wiser than when we first met, and my once low standards have raised. At the minimum I expect somebody to smile at me before I show them my talents,” Jaskier bluffs.

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you call me a liar.” 

Jaskier prepares the bath, familiar by now with Geralt’s preferred temperature, soaps, fragrance, and positioning of ale mug. He turns his back while Geralt removes his clothes, busying himself with lighting some candles, and folds those same clothes into a neat stack as Geralt grows accustomed to the water, letting his head fall back in its usual bliss.

“Anything else I can do to help? Flower petals in the water? Something to eat? I could wash your hair? Give you a massage?”

Jaskier always offers such things, but it’s rare for Geralt to accept. He likes his bath a certain way, and only puts up with the bard’s chatter during it because in return, Jaskier makes sure the water stays almost boiling hot throughout. Occasionally, he has Jaskier bring him something for a particularly nasty wound; once, after being dragged through a hedge by a hellhound, he’d let him comb his hair. 

Today he says, “Could use a massage. Shoulders haven’t been right since the potions yesterday.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise.

“You think it was the potions rather than tearing the kikimore limb from limb with your bare hands?”

The request itself is far more surprising, and not one that Jaskier is entirely prepared for. Geralt wants Jaskier to touch him? His bare flesh? While he’s naked? This isn’t dream Geralt, either; he can tell by the frown lines.

“It swallowed my sword.”

“How could I forget?” Jaskier gathers a towel and some massage oil, slicking up his hands and trying to stop them from shaking with anticipation. 

His cock throbs as he steps over to the tub, warning him that just sharing a room with naked Geralt is already a precarious enough situation. He glares down at it. What’s he supposed to do, risk Geralt developing serious shoulder damage because he keeps blowing his load? 

The first squeeze to Geralt’s firm muscles is a divine revelation. He can’t believe whores expect the witcher’s coin when Jaskier would happily pay for the privilege of being able to touch Geralt. This feels very different from dressing one of Geralt’s wounds. Maybe not more intimate, but definitely more charged - bringing pleasure as well as relieving pain. Each time Jaskier digs his fingers into a particularly tense knot, he hears a low rumble from deep in Geralt’s chest that goes straight to his cock, and part of him knows that he’ll be a lost cause if Geralt lets this go on for too long.

The heat inside Jaskier builds slowly, along with the steam rising from the bath. Jaskier loves to provoke reactions of all kinds out of the witcher - he’s always so focused on one thing, and Jaskier gets such a thrill out of being that thing. This particular reaction, where Geralt is loosening up and his posture visibly relaxing as Jaskier keeps working his muscles, gives him a very particular kind of pride. He doesn’t want that to end, so he ignores the increasing pressure between his legs, even though it’s too much, his body far too responsive to the hot, wet flesh beneath him.

“Is this good? Should I… anything?” he checks.

“ _Harder_.”

Thank the gods Geralt can’t see his face. Jaskier doesn’t know if he can _get_ much harder, in either sense of the word. He’s already putting most of his strength into this, and he has to reach down and give himself a momentary, hard squeeze through his trousers to stop himself from going off.. 

Geralt groans at the loss of the hand. “Don’t stop.”

Jaskier makes a choked noise.

And then Geralt turns to face Jaskier, sending ripples through the water, and, oh, Jaskier has been trying so hard not to look, but Geralt’s cock is suddenly right in his line of view, and he’s half hard and somehow even bigger than Jaskier had thought based on past glimpses, and it’s _over_ . The second his last functioning brain cell registers that he had _that_ kind of effect on Geralt, he comes so hard that he loses his balance, his head falling forward against Geralt’s bicep with a soft whine, legs unable to hold him up through the sheer force of it all.

There’s a beat before Jaskier pulls his head back, another before Geralt’s eyes flick down to the giant wet spot on his crotch. He stares for a long and uncomfortable moment. His face is completely unreadable, and Jaskier has no idea what he’s thinking, but even he’s not fool enough to think he can hide what happened.

Fuck. This situation feels worse by the second as the endorphins fade. He honestly wouldn’t blame Geralt for never wanting to see him again.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks in a small voice.

“Hmm.”

“No, I mean, _leave_. Get out of town. Stop traveling with you.”

“Up to you,” Geralt says again, and Jaskier should probably take that to mean that Geralt isn’t completely disgusted by him, but-

“You’re telling me that after months of trying to get rid of me, tonight, magically, you have no feelings on the matter whatsoever?”

Geralt fixes him with a glare. “Been a while since I was trying. This isn’t the worst trouble that useless cock of yours causes.”

Jaskier ponders both of those statements. “But it is trouble?”

“Trouble for you. Doesn’t affect me while there’s no jealous ex lovers trying to cut it off.”

Jaskier nods and averts his eyes. “Right. No. None of those here, not that I’ve noticed. I’ll be back at the inn.”

He leaves, feeling like Geralt is probably assuming that this is just something that happens to Jaskier. He probably doesn’t realize the starring role of his own proximity in the matter, or the fact that although Jaskier is attracted to many, many people, with Geralt it’s always been more magnetic.

Still. Geralt is not a stupid man, and he’ll have some idea how to prevent it from happening again. He’ll keep his distance a little more, keep his clothes on around Jaskier, set the boundaries he needs to. And Jaskier will be grateful for it, as much as he wishes he could be close to Geralt.

Because three accidental orgasms is a pattern, but four would be - there’s not even a phrase for that. Four would be unprecedented.

  
  


4

The fourth time, it’s under a table. It’s a corner table that looks startlingly like the one where Jaskier first approached Geralt, and he’d been tipsy and horny then, too. He’s a human being with excellent vision, so of _course_ he’d walked over there with a sway in his hips and the intent to get into the man’s bed, but the realization that he was a witcher had pushed the thought aside at first. After all, witchers didn’t feel. They brought excellent material for tales of fantastical monsters, but hardly for odes of passion and desire.

So, it was over time that things had developed. It was each time that Geralt said “hmm” and Jaskier realized he knew instinctively what Geralt meant by it. It was every night that Geralt stayed and watched him perform, when he could have gone anywhere else and avoided the crowd’s stares during ‘Toss a Coin’. It was the steadily growing acknowledgement of Jaskier’s wants and needs, the way Geralt started to glance at him for confirmation before taking on a job, to expect that Jaskier would accompany him rather than simply tolerate him.

Looking at the facts brings two, disappointingly separate conclusions. First, witchers _can_ feel, whether or not they realize it. Second, Jaskier has gone and toppled head over heels, recklessly but truly in love for the first time in his life.

A couple of weeks after this revelation, he almost falls right back _out_ of love when he hears the stomp of heavy boots down the corridor, his door flung open without warning, Geralt’s imposing figure leaning in the doorway. Jaskier has a moment of notice, but he still has to yank his hand from his pants _very_ quickly, grab the small handheld mirror from beside his bed and act like he’s lounging and fixing his hair.

He thinks, for once, he’s done a pretty good job of pretending. It’s confirmed when Geralt says, “Once people get a few drinks in them they don’t care whether your eyelashes are curled. Get downstairs.”

“I thought you wanted to drink alone?”

“That’s the problem. People are-“ a brief look of disgust crosses his face- “talking to me.”

“Oh, heaven forbid. You’re too interesting by far, that’s your problem. Too mysterious. Unapproachable. People want what they can’t have.”

“That’s just pretty words. It’s not a solution.”

“Believe me, you talk to people for five minutes and they’ll _want_ to go away.”

“You didn’t.”

And now, apparently, it’s too late, he’s missed his window, because Geralt strides across the room and grabs him by the arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Okay, okay, okay. What’s my role? Play songs, distract them, focus all my powers of seduction on anyone who looks like they’re heading your way?”

“Hmm,” Geralt confirms. Jaskier, lovesick fool that he is, ignores his cock and follows him downstairs.

The night doesn’t go exactly to plan. Jaskier manages to buy Geralt about twenty minutes of alone time with his performance, but he’s still pretty keyed up, this frustration in the pit of his stomach meaning he can only recall his raunchiest songs. The first two have the crowd cheering and whistling, so he grows bolder with the third, roaming the room and making eye contact with anyone who looks at him with interest. He struts towards each one, holding their gaze and singing a lyric just for them.

He misjudges, gets a little too close to someone he really believed was here alone, and a woman taller than Geralt stands up to block his path, hands on her hips as she tells him to quit it with the cheap tricks before she wrings his neck so that he’ll never sing again. She’s loud enough that a few of the patrons around overhear, and they look to be nodding in agreement. Either this woman’s a regular or they’re all terrified of her, likely both, so Jaskier gets an ale for Geralt and a tequila sunrise for himself and heads over to his table.

There’s a small quirk to Geralt’s lips when he sits down. It’s more smirk than smile, but Jaskier will take what he can get.

“I suppose you overheard me get thoroughly shot down there? Almost literally. Jealous lovers make me fear for my life more than any monster you’ve shown me.”

“Then you should be more careful with who you sing to.”

Jaskier pushes the fresh mug towards him, seeing his is empty, and takes a long slurp of his own drink. “One must take risks in romance.”

“Hmm.” 

In his head, Jaskier translates the grunt to an amused ‘is that so?’ He shoots back an unapologetic grin.

There’s a few moments of silence before Geralt asks, “How does the song end?”

Jaskier coughs on a mouthful of his drink in surprise. “You’re asking about my song?”

“I haven’t heard that one before. You only got through half the story.”

“Well, since you ask so nicely. The princess and the farm girl cannot shake the thought of each other, and agree to meet for a final, secret tryst in the stables at midnight, the night before the princess sails away to be wed. Knowing it will be the last time they ever see each other, the farm girl spends every coin she has on a special extra appendage that she hides beneath her smallclothes, ready to take the princess to new heights of pleasure she’s never seen before-“

Geralt’s not looking directly at him as he speaks, but Jaskier knows him well enough to tell that he’s paying attention, his posture alert like it is when he’s listening for danger. The reverse is true for Jaskier – he can’t take his eyes off Geralt, but he feels like he’s floating, for the life of him can’t focus. It doesn’t help that he never got completely soft even while distracted, and it definitely doesn’t help that this song came from one of Jaskier’s own (pre-Geralt) fantasies. Retelling it in this way, to this audience, reminds him how he was left wanting earlier, his body sparking right back up to where he’d left off.

“-and of course the princess tries to maintain her decorum when she arrives, but as soon as they press together and she feels that firm length she is swept away with lust, and the farm girl picks her up and holds her against the stable door so the princess can ride her better than any horse-“

When Jaskier sings to a room, he’s in control. He’s the one who sketches melodies and colors them with lyrics, he decides what story to tell, everyone else simply reacts. Tonight, it feels like the story has escaped his grip. He’s following the song, but he’s not consciously choosing what to say. The words just flow, and everything else is reaction.

“-they’re both seeing stars, but they still need something else to make it into their best encounter ever, one the princess will remember every time she is taken in her marital bedchamber, and that’s when the farm girl taps into a hidden magic she never knew she had, and she enchants her wand to tingle and buzz as she moves, and the princess screams out in such ecstasy as she reaches the greatest climax of her life that she’s overheard by the stable boy sleeping in his house nearby, and when he discovers their secret he tells them that nothing is more important than love and he helps them run away together before dawn, the farm girl still wearing her vibrating cock.”

He hasn’t noticed himself leaning in, but when Jaskier concludes his narrative, Geralt is closer than he expects. Jaskier’s own cock is throbbing, seeking the same fulfilment as the princess and not far from reaching it, and his leg is inches from Geralt’s.

“Hmm,” is Geralt’s first response, and this one is fucking indecipherable.

Geralt’s eyes turn to meet his, before he asks, “How did you think of that? It can’t possibly be a true story.”

The force of the gaze knocks the wind out of Jaskier. His cock strains, begging to be touched, and he thinks about the beautiful friction he’d feel if he could only sit astride Geralt’s leather clad thigh and grind against it.

“I, well. I- the truth does not always provide neat stories. Sometimes a complete fabrication of mine is what people want to hear.”

“How do you know what people want to hear?” His voice is low, and Jaskier’s eyes shift to his lips, reading the words that he mouths.

He can’t figure out how to make the pieces fit, can’t see how Geralt could possibly not know what effect he’s having right now, can’t reason why else he would act like this, can’t understand why Geralt would want to provoke him this way.

“They’re the stories I want to hear. The stories I tell when I’m thinking them just for myself.”

Geralt’s eyes reveal nothing, and Jaskier knows his probably reveal far too much, but he doesn’t look away even as he breathes fast and shallow, his mouth falling slightly open as the pressure in his crotch mounts.

“ _Hmm_.”

Jaskier translates: ‘I did wonder if there were stories you kept for yourself.’ However, as befalls many a translation, some nuance of language is lost during conversion, and he has no idea if the statement is _specifically_ about his sexual fantasies.

The next few seconds of Jaskier’s life play out in slow motion.

Geralt speaks in a scratched whisper, and Jaskier is right there on the edge, fuse burned all the way down and a single spark away from igniting. The first tiny bolts of pleasure spark through him, his fingers and toes curling, but somehow his body is frozen even as he’s already entered freefall.

“You need another drink. I’ll get it. Move so I don’t have to climb on top of you.”

Geralt drops eye contact and turns back to his mug, and at the exact same moment, he sets one searing hand on Jaskier’s thigh and squeezes.

Jaskier explodes like he’s been trained to do it. His existence narrows and blurs to a single thought of exactly what Geralt’s burning grip would feel like around his cock, and he opens his mouth in a silent moan of desperate bliss.

As he starts to come back to himself, his dick still twitching with a few final pulses, he realizes that Geralt has both hands now around his mug as he drains it. He gets to his feet, appearing not to notice or acknowledge Jaskier’s indiscretion (it hardly seems fair to keep calling it an accident), much less the fact that his hand was six inches from Jaskier’s cock when it happened.

Jaskier scrambles to his feet and makes way for Geralt to step out of the booth, before falling back into the seat, legs still trembling. There’s still just enough doubt in his spinning head, just enough chance that Geralt has no fucking idea what he did to him, that Jaskier cannot contemplate saying anything. Fuck, but he’s been shown _paradise_ by some of the most talented fingers and mouths on the Continent, and none of it compares to what just happened.

When he looks up, he sees Geralt approaching once more, carrying a fresh ale for himself and a strawberry daiquiri for Jaskier, who can’t fight his own soft smile.

Needless to say, Geralt is his farm girl. 

5

The fifth time, it’s at a ball. Geralt gets hired by a nobleman to dispatch some ghouls which have taken up residence in the gardens of his estate just days before he throws a lavish outdoor party, and as part of his gratitude for a job well done, the nobleman insists they both attend the festivities. Jaskier kicks Geralt in the ankle when he opens his mouth to ask for more coin instead, and accepts on behalf of both of them. 

Nothing’s tangibly changed since the night at the inn, but it feels to Jaskier like the two of them are aware of each other more than usual. When they’re alone together, they’re deliberate in their words and movements in a way that Jaskier overanalyzes while trying to find sleep. Sometimes, Geralt watches him, though his gaze never lingers for more than a few seconds. Once or twice, Jaskier has challenged him and stared back. Geralt always looks like he’s trying to solve the world’s most bewildering puzzle. 

Jaskier’s patience is frayed, and he wants to demand an explanation, one he doesn’t have to translate from grunts. He never does. The balance between them always feels far too delicate.

The night of the party, Geralt knocks on his door rather than barging in as usual. Jaskier opens it, and takes a step back in genuine shock at the sight of Geralt’s clothes. It seems he’s finally discovered they’re available in colors other than black – his long coat is two shades of deep green, similar enough that the embroidery is only noticeable from close by, his shirt a pale gold silk. His trousers and boots are black, but they’re new, and-

“Did you borrow my hair oils?”

“Good evening. No.”

“Yet it shines as though combed by the moonlight itself.”

Geralt scoffs. “I wouldn’t make that effort. Wouldn’t try to outdo you there.”

“If I squint very carefully I can _almost_ find a compliment in that.”

Geralt grunts and inclines his head towards the door. 

The party is beautiful, but too refined to be interesting. There’s not a trace of a ghoul left in the gardens, just blossoming blue and purple flowers, trees woven into archways, a glimmering waterfall at the center. Nobles from across the kingdom dine and drink and dance in skirts designed to twirl on the wind, moving with effortless grace, and Jaskier dances his way through the whole crowd, taking the hand of anyone who smiles at him and spinning them round until they’re too dizzy to notice he doesn’t have their poise. He meets some very charming people, but they all seem like they’re acting. 

After a while, he finds he’s circled back around to where he started, where Geralt is leaning against a stone relief, alone, drinking wine and half-watching the crowd.

“You seem to be throwing yourself into the party spirit,” Jaskier quips, plucking a glass of his own from a nearby table.

“They’re all trying to win favor with the king. He’s got land to give away. Any word of a scandal tonight, whoever caused it loses their chance.”

“So they all hate each other, but are passing up a perfectly good drunken argument to instead put on a frankly bland performance to win favor with a man who’s not even here?”

“Sounds about right.”

Jaskier takes a huge gulp of wine, looking back to the crowd. The nobles have some performing musicians of their own – Jaskier would _not_ honor them with the title of bards – and they’ve been gradually slowing down the pace of their songs as the dancers have spiraled out and partnered off until there’s no central group left.

“Ah. It appears I have missed my window to find a dance partner. Indecision is my downfall once again.”

Geralt surveys the lawn of dancers, taking one slow, deep breath.

“Would you have me?”

Jaskier’s charcoal lined eyes widen in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Your dance partner. So your night doesn’t have to end early.”

“D-do you even know how to dance?”

“I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve called my swordfighting a dance in your songs. By your own words, I dance very well.”

“The art of metaphor is-“

Geralt steps forward, and there’s a glint in his eye and a genuine, lingering smile on his face when he offers his hand. “Jaskier. I won’t ask again. May I have this dance?”

The smile alone sweeps him off his feet, and who is he to pass up a once in a lifetime chance?

He holds his head high as he places his hand in Geralt’s. “Tonight must be your lucky night. I wouldn’t usually still be free this late in the evening, but by your good fortune, presently I can accept.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier shuts up as instructed, and then Geralt is tugging him forward to a relatively secluded area, close to the other dancing pairs but sheltered from view by the rocky edge of the waterfall. They’re far enough away from the musicians that Jaskier can pretend they are good, and dancing to good music is one of his most basic instincts, so he doesn’t waste time trying to make their every move perfect. Geralt technically leads, but it’s Jaskier demonstrating the steps, showing Geralt how to initiate jumps and twirls and dips. 

Geralt does pick it up quickly, reflexes quick enough to notice how Jaskier is moving next almost before he does it. Geralt seems to be tuning the music out more than following along with it, but Jaskier’s there to keep them to time, and before too long they settle into a rhythm where they don’t have to think so carefully. Jaskier starts to show off, proving that he can perfectly balance on his toes and spin around, and when his feet touch back down Geralt doesn’t just place his hand back on Jaskier’s waist – he slides it round to the other side and pulls him in much closer, almost but not quite pressed together.

Jaskier gasps at the sudden rush of Geralt through his senses. He sees his dance partner’s eyes darken.

Jaskier thinks he was already hard, but this is the moment when he realizes it, and now he can’t think of anything else. They’re moving, still, and every time Geralt steps forward there’s the faintest brush of fabric against fabric as his thigh just misses Jaskier’s cock. They’re too close and not close enough and Jaskier refuses to do anything about either of those things, because that would mean breaking rhythm. 

His cock is so sensitive, jumping towards Geralt with each near-touch such that he must be able to feel it, to know what this kind of closeness will soon lead to. But Geralt doesn’t break step or say anything, just keeps the movements slow and gentle enough that Jaskier has no way to distract himself from the rub of his cock against expensive fabric as Geralt’s thumb presses slow circles into his waist.

Jaskier lets out a ragged breath. “Geralt, I may need to go sit down for a minute.”

“The song hasn’t finished.”

“It’s quite an urgent situation.”

“Must be difficult. If you were with a noble, you’d have to keep your composure. No matter what.” His eyes flicker down between them. 

That’s all the confirmation Jaskier needs to be sure that Geralt is getting him worked up on purpose. This isn’t a fucking coincidence. This is a _narrative_ , and one Jaskier knows well.

“You bastard.”

Geralt’s eyes darken further, and they’re wild, almost in hunt mode, as he pulls Jaskier even closer and their bodies finally meet. Jaskier is so agonizingly hard, his cock digging into the crease at the top of Geralt’s thigh. He’s lightheaded, and this may be torture but it’s infinitely more interesting than anything else that could have happened at this party.

There’s no fancy footwork now, just the two of them swaying back and forth. Jaskier’s biting his lip, hyperaware of the slow rock of Geralt’s hips against his even while he knows their dance looks no more intimate than any of the couples around them. But Jaskier is not a composed noble, he’s a slutty bard whose cock is leaking inside brand new trousers, and his partner is not focused on keeping up appearances for a king, he’s unwaveringly focused on Jaskier.

Fucking hell. Forget the movements, the closeness, the touch. Jaskier fears he would come just from Geralt giving him that look for long enough. He looks like he’s seconds away from throwing Jaskier down into the flowerbeds and claiming him right here in front of everyone.

Jaskier’s hips jerk at the thought, losing rhythm for a moment, desperate for friction and too close to resist. Geralt raises an eyebrow and moves one hand to Jaskier’s hip, holding tight to keep him in place.

If Jaskier’s right about the story Geralt is telling, they’re supposed to make it through the dance before one of them suggests to the other that they take their leave and find a bed to get better acquainted in. Jaskier’s seduced countless people similarly and stayed mostly collected until they reached the bedroom, but those partners have never been as attractive or as intoxicating as Geralt.

His whole body is humming with energy, building in a chain reaction and concentrating in his cock,

“Geralt, I-“ he tries to say, before his voice breaks off into a tiny whimper.

A slow smirk travels across Geralt’s face. It’s annoyingly smug and far too unsurprised, and it makes Jaskier want to prove him wrong even as he’s hurtling towards the edge, his hips trying to buck a few more times but foiled by Geralt’s hand holding them in place. 

His orgasm crashes into him so hard he can’t tell up from down, but Geralt makes sure he doesn’t miss a step in the dance even while Jaskier’s eyes are screwed shut. He feels like he’s flying through the stars. At the same time, he feels perfectly safe, surrounded, held. 

As soon as he’s able to, he wipes the dreamy smile off his face and replaces it with a disapproving pout. “Alright, out with it. What exactly are your intentions regarding me?”

Geralt snorts with amusement, and the song’s ending, so he takes Jaskier by the hand and leads him to a quieter area of the gardens, where they can wander amongst decorative flowers. 

“Didn’t want to jump to conclusions at first. Thought you were just frustrated on the road, going without companionship for a time. I wasn’t going to interfere. You’re not exactly quiet about your interest in people. Thought you’d proposition me outright if you wanted to.”

Jaskier looks at him in disbelief. Mostly he’s horrified at the implication that he and Geralt could have fucked a long time ago. “It’s a two way process! There has to be something, just the barest hint of attraction! A seductive glance, a flutter of the eyelashes, a lick of the lips! Complaining about my singing and the inconvenience of my company is hardly foreplay.”

“I stopped doing that. Right after I thought you might be attracted to me. Then-”

“Then _what_?”

Geralt’s voice is strained and frustrated. “Then I had to- I don’t do what you do. I pay for whores so that I don’t have to pretend to make conversation, I’ve never tried to- _seduce_ anyone. The way you talk, it’s a lot of impractical clothes, romantic scenery, witty conversation, suggestive dancing.”

Jaskier gasps. “You were trying to seduce me with my own tricks! You _were_! I knew it!”

“Once I was sure you were attracted to me. And an opportunity came up.”

“Oh, this is marvelous, this will be a song of the ages! Forget the monsters, this will be known as your greatest conquest.”

“You were always going to write a fucking song about this. Can’t stop you, so I had to make it worth singing about.”

Jaskier’s heart swells to twice the size. Never mind the fact that everything about Geralt is worth singing about. Geralt is welcome to provide the filling to his pie, as it were.

He wonders if Geralt has other plans in store for their night. It would be rude not to ask, when he’d put so much thought into this...

“Well, consider me seduced. Courted. Convinced. Won over. Yours to do as you please with. And I have to ask you again-“ he stops walking and faces Geralt, balancing on his toes to lean in and whisper against his lips- “what are your _intentions_ with me?”

Geralt puts a possessive hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck, speaking in his most gravelly voice.

“My intentions are to take you to bed and get those fucking clothes off of you, so that the next time you come is down my throat.”

Jaskier’s jaw goes slack, his cock instantly ready to go again, and there’s only one clear thought in his mind.

“I have an idea. Trust me.”

+1

The first time that Jaskier intentionally comes because of Geralt, they are somewhere they’re definitely not supposed to be.

“We have a room we can go back to.”

“And its sheets are like sandpaper scraping against my tender skin! You promised me seduction, and I think that should include-“ Jaskier throws open a nearby door and beams in triumph. “Aha! You see! Silk sheets!”

“Someone could overhear. Or walk in.”

“Everyone’s outside, even the guards are drunk out of their minds, and if someone walks in, they can enjoy the show and almost certainly be jealous of at least one of us.”

Geralt looks like he’s wavering, and Jaskier thinks it’s his turn to play dirty. He presses himself up against Geralt and rolls his hips forward slowly, so Geralt can feel that he’s hard again. Jaskier feels faint when Geralt’s cock pushes back against his, equally hard. “If we went all the way back, there would be so much anticipation. I don’t know that I’d last long after that. And I thought you wanted to touch me?”

“Hmm.”

It’s a fair point, but Jaskier doesn’t have long to think about it, because just then Geralt is kissing him like he’s wanted to do it for years. Like everything Geralt does, it’s intense, exhilarating, rough around the edges with an undercurrent of power. He bites down on Jaskier’s lip, backing them through the doorway without breaking the kiss, and then the two of them are in a noble’s guest bedchambers, the party still in full swing in the gardens below.

Geralt’s hands fist in the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet, and he growls, “Take this off if you want to wear it again.”

Jaskier hurries to do so, because this is brand new, but- “If this is going to happen again I will have to find my oldest clothes just so you may rip them off me.”

“Do that.” Geralt’s taking off his clothes too, leaving those beautiful fabrics in a crumpled pile on the floor, and Jaskier doesn’t care because he’s so fucking grateful there’s no suit of armor to waste time removing. The closer Geralt gets to him the more Jaskier needs his touch – as if that hasn’t been their entire relationship. Geralt giving way ever so slightly, allowing Jaskier into his life a little more, and Jaskier greedily taking every part of Geralt he can get and refusing to let go.

He’d feel bad about it if Geralt didn’t keep giving him even more.

For a few seconds they just look at each other. It’s the first time Jaskier has known he’s allowed to stare, and there’s so much he wants to take in and emblaze on his memory forever, so that he may describe its every detail in a lyric.

"Jaskier. I can't keep my hands off you for much longer. I need you to tell me if that's okay."

Geralt steps forward, eyes moving up and down Jaskier’s body, not sure which part to focus on first.

"Yes, fuck, do whatever you want to me, it will not be filthier than the things I have imagined-"

"-which you'll be telling me about later, because I don't like imagining things, I like doing them."

Jaskier's previous experience with naked Geralt does not prepare him for this. Geralt pushes him down onto the bed and climbs on top of him, his arms on either side of Jaskier's head, bracketing him in, and he's probably not laying down with his full weight but Geralt's body is still so heavy, a delicious weight on top of him. Jaskier feels completely restrained, couldn't move if he tried, and that's the fucking hottest part of it all - just waiting to see what Geralt will do next, the irresistible uncertainty of it all. His cock leaks, pressed between their bodies, leaving the smallest drop of precome on Jaskier's stomach, and he realizes he wants to feel Geralt come all over him.

He bucks his hips up against Geralt's, and they both groan at the drag of their cocks. It doesn’t take long for them to start up a messy rhythm, Jaskier wrapping his arms round Geralt and holding on for dear life as his eyes roll back and he dissolves into pleasure.

He would be perfectly happy to keep doing this forever, no need for food or sleep or coin or anything except the heady rush of Geralt all over, but too soon Geralt breaks contact and sits upright astride him. His breathing is ragged and there’s a vein visibly throbbing in his cock, and Jaskier, who succumbs to lust as often as he possibly can, has never wanted anyone more.

“Stay quiet unless you want me to stop. I don’t want anyone interrupting me while I take you apart.”

Jaskier can only nod in agreement.

Geralt is desperate but somehow also methodical as he attacks Jaskier's body, exploring every part with his hands and lips and teeth. He’s not hesitant to give pain, to suck on the sensitive skin just above Jaskier’s nipple, twisting it between his teeth so it leaves a mark, or to scratch his fingernails in long red lines down Jaskier’s torso. It probably helps that when Geralt is rough with him, Jaskier can’t stop the breathy moan or the ‘ _please,_ _more_ ’ that escapes his lips.

It feels like Geralt leaves traces of himself on every inch of Jaskier's body before he finally touches where he’d promised. Jaskier is desperate for it, his stomach clenching with each angry throb of his ignored cock, which is dripping all over him. Jaskier knows he could easily come from this if Geralt keeps it up long enough, but right now it's touch he craves more than anything, the tight warmth of some part of Geralt all around him, the instant relief that friction would bring-

Far too gently, Geralt takes Jaskier's dick in one hand and moves it aside, and then - oh. He swipes out his tongue and licks up the trail of precome Jaskier's left on his own stomach, then the remaining drips on the head of his cock.

Jaskier lets out a string of curse words, and he's certain that at the moment of his death, that will be the final memory he wants to look back on.

Geralt looks up at him with blazing eyes. "I told you to be quiet."

Then he swallows Jaskier down with one smooth movement, taking him to the base such that the swollen head is pressing against the back of Geralt's throat.

Jaskier's body arches up off the bed and his vision goes white. Geralt pulls off halfway to hollow his cheeks and give a couple of long, slow sucks to the head, and Jaskier shoves one fist into his own mouth to bite down on, the other in Geralt's hair, and Jaskier knows already that he could spend his whole life trying and failing to find words for what that mouth is doing to him.

Jaskier knows it’s useless to hold back, to pretend this can last more than a minute or two, and he accepts it without question, knowing that this will be the first time of many.

He holds tight to Geralt’s hair but doesn’t try to move him, trusting him to give Jaskier what he needs. Geralt’s lips drag slowly up and down Jaskier’s cock, slow enough that Jaskier can feel them slide over each ridge. He groans every time he sinks all the way down and his nose touches the curls between Jaskier’s hips, and Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s the vibrations or the knowledge that Geralt is affected by this too, but it turns him into a quivering mess.

His hand tightens in Geralt’s hair in warning, and Geralt takes that as a cue to speed up, head bobbing faster, no longer holding back wet slurping sounds where he’s drooling slightly around Jaskier’s length. Jaskier lets himself be swept away in pleasure, doesn’t need to worry about holding back as Geralt draws him over the edge and Jaskier slams his hips up once, hard, forcing the head of his cock down Geralt’s throat as the first spurt explodes from him.

Geralt pulls back but not completely off, keeping that same suction on Jaskier’s oversensitive cock and drinking down everything he can get, and it feels like it goes on forever, Geralt somehow able to pull out these desperate, overstimulated trickles of come even after he feels like he’s done.

Finally, Geralt pulls off, leaving Jaskier completely weak and boneless and drenched in sweat on this giant, luxurious bed. He flops down beside him and drapes one arm over Jaskier, ignoring his own still aggressively hard cock.

“I’m ruined,” Jaskier declares in a shaky but deeply satisfied voice. “The White Wolf has made me his prey and hunted me through the nights, and he is just as dangerous as the songs all say, for he has ravished me until I fear he may have stolen all of my desires for other companions.”

Geralt moves even closer, pressing his face into Jaskier’s hair. “Ridiculous. I doubt that.”

“It’s true! You’re always telling me about my low standards, and I have listened, because they are now so astronomically high that only one man could ever meet them.” Jaskier turns his head towards Geralt, vulnerable for just a moment. “Is that a problem?”

“ _No_. I want you with me. In my bed, traveling with me, as much as possible. It’s- all of it is better with you there.” He sighs against Jaskier’s neck, screwing his eyes shut for a moment. “I won’t ask you to give up what makes you happy. If you want to stay behind in town and fuck tavern girls, or travel around without me for a while, do it. You put up with far worse from me. I want you around. Whenever you want to be here.”

Jaskier’s whole face lights up, and he feels a renewed energy as he takes Geralt’s chin in one hand and leans in for a gentle kiss.

“And just to confirm, one more time before I tell the whole world that I have finally met my match in the bedroom, there will be more of this?”

“You’ll manage to get off either way. I’d like to be satisfied on our adventures too.”

“Oh yes,” Jaskier smiles, trailing one hand down Geralt’s body between them until it reaches his cock. It’s softened a little, but instantly perks up to meet Jaskier’s touch. “Any way in particular you’d like that to happen now?”

Geralt hesitates for a beat before asking, “Can you come again tonight?”

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, before he’s even finished getting the question out. “Twice if that’s what the night requires. That’s bard magic.”

Geralt moves his own hand down to cup one cheek of Jaskier’s lovely bottom. “ _Hmm_.”

“O- _oh_.” Jaskier pushes back into the touch. “I won’t be able to keep quiet. I will scream your name loud enough for the whole house to hear if you do that.”

Geralt lets out a sharp exhale, rutting into Jaskier’s hand at the thought. He brings his own other hand to cover Jaskier’s mouth and says, “What if I _make_ you keep quiet?”

Jaskier’s eyes darken, and he gives a quick nod. Through Geralt’s fingers he mumbles, “Jacket, shoulder, secret pocket, oil.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Because I am a man of many talents, of course.”

“Many talents, little stamina.”

“Don’t be mean, you like it. You like _me_.”

“Hmm.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic ive written in a very long time so im still shaking off the rust! but id really like to write other dynamics between these two as well so comments are super appreciated. thanks for reading <3


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